


A Glorious Mess of Complication

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil discovers that he has "pheelings" for his favorite sniper, even when said sniper is down with the flu. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/707408">Hot Toddy</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glorious Mess of Complication

**Author's Note:**

> Marvel owns the characters, I own nothing but my words ... and apparently my flu germs. Mama Lo is an eighty-year old grandmother whose English is less that perfect. I apologize my interpretation of her English is in any way offensive. It is based on my perceptions gleaned from real life. She certainly speaks English better than I speak Thai.

"Four days!" Clint croaks, then coughs. "Flu is supposed to last four days and I'm still fucking coughing my lungs out." Like it's a personal affront. Phil raises his brows at the thermometer he's holding. 

"You're running a fever. You should go back to medical."

Clint looks at him, pleading. He shakes his head. "No. They'll keep me there, stick me with needles." He bends double, coughing. It's deep, chesty. It sounds painful. 

Phil would be exasperated if not for the underlying panic in Clint's eyes. He _knows_ Clint has been held captive, tortured, tied down and helpless. A stay in medical shouldn't be traumatic, but for some reason, it is. 

"Shh." He strokes Clint's hair back, feels the heat of his scalp and the tremors in his shoulders. "All right. I'll tell the doctors you need something stronger than OTC medications. But to do that, I have to go into work."

Clint forces himself upright on the kitchen chair. "I don't need a babysitter." 

"Believe me, I have no desire to be your babysitter, Barton. I -- I'm just concerned."

"Yeah, because I'm such a valuable asset." Bitter, wry, and blunted slightly by another coughing jag. 

Phil sighs. "Go back to bed. I'll be home soon."

"Take your time." Clint heaves himself up from the chair and stumbles back to the couch. He's been more comfortable there than in the guest bedroom. He pulls the afghan over his shoulders and turns on the TV. The sound is barely audible; just a low hum of white noise. 

Phil picks up the bowl of oatmeal he had made for Clint. Half-eaten and cold, there's no point in keeping it to be reheated. Barton's appetite has been non-existent. Phil can see the hollows of his cheeks, the rawness of his bones. Barton has the metabolism of a hummingbird; even at rest he burns more calories than Phil does in a heavy session with his trainer. 

Phil puts out a can of soup, ginger-ale, and orange juice in the faint hope that Barton will eat something. He needs to stay hydrated. He fills a tall glass with water and carries it over to the couch. Clint is already asleep. Phil looks at him. Even with the pallor, the stubble on his jaw, the circles under his eyes, he's still beautiful; a thought that seems vaguely obscene given his current state of health. Phil backs away, grabs his coat from the hall tree, and leaves, securing the locks behind him. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
After a quick read of several situation reports and the spew of emails that have come in overnight, Phil goes down to medical, with a detour to the cafeteria for a take-away cup of coffee. Dr. Reinhardt has just come in for her shift. When she sees Phil with the coffee, she holds our her hand. 

"It's never good when you come bearing gifts, Agent Coulson." Still, she takes a sip and closes her eyes briefly. "I don't know how people who don't drink coffee survive," she sighs, earning a smile from Phil. "What can I do for you?"

"Not for me, for Barton." 

She pauses mid-sip. "How is he?"

"Sick, and not getting much better. I think he needs stronger medications."

"Good luck with that. I can hardly get him to take an aspirin when he has a headache."

"Headaches are an unworthy adversary," Phil says mildly. "He'll take what he needs to get well."

"I can't prescribe without seeing him, Agent Coulson."

"Call me Phil. I think we've bonded enough over Barton to be on a first name basis - and you know he won't come in voluntarily."

"Walk with me." Phil does, an easy stroll down the corridors towards the pharmacy. "Go on, tell me about him."

"Running a low-grade fever, coughing like Mimi in _La Boheme_. Headache. He says his teeth hurt."

"How is his breathing?"

"He's not complaining, and after Budapest, I think even he would be wary of that."

"Why is he so stubborn?" Dr. Reinhardt asks. "It's not like we torture him here!" She pulls a prescription pad from her lab coat and scribbles on it. 

"I don't know. I don't think this is the best time to press him on that matter. Maybe in a day or two."

"That's probably wise." The pharmacist hands her a plastic bottle. "It's a basic antibiotic," she explains. "Follow the instructions. It has to be taken with food."

"He's not eating very much."

"Order him to eat. It doesn't have to be a five course meal. Toast and tea, soup. Something. Is he staying hydrated?"

"I'm making sure of that."

She sighs. "I don't like doing this. If his fever spikes, if he has trouble breathing, if his chest hurts or if he isn't feeling at least fifty-percent better in thirty-six hours, I don't care if you have to call 911 and have them tie him to a gurney, get him here ASAP. I'm serious, Phil."

"I don't doubt it. I want him to get over this and back to active duty."

"So he can end up here again?"

It's a low blow. Phil narrows his study. "We can't do our job hiding behind a desk." He can only say this because he is an active field agent first, an administrator second. 

She puts her hand on his arm. "I know. My job is occasionally frustrating."

" _Barton_ is occasionally frustrating." She laughs at that, and Phil pockets the medication. "Thank you."

"Just remember my instructions."

"I will."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
When he gets back to the apartment, the couch is vacant, but he can hear water running in the guest bath. The can of soup in the kitchen has been opened and there is some in a pot on the stove. It looks like Clint's eaten about a cup. The can of ginger-ale is empty and the glass of orange juice is more than half gone. Phil sighs in relief. He cleans up in the kitchen, keeping half an ear on the sound of the shower. It finally cuts off as Phil walks into the hall. A puff of steam emerges followed by Clint, wrapped in a towel. Beads of water spangle his skin and his hair is sticking up in impossible swirls. Phil pauses, takes a breath. "Barton, get back inside that bathroom until I bring you something to wear. You'll catch a chill."

"Nice to see you, too." The words are followed by a loose cough, but Clint retreats back into the moist heat. 

Phil gets a fresh pair of sleep pants and a long-sleeved black tee shirt. He finds his spare robe; it's soft gray flannel, big enough that it should fit Clint. He knocks on the door and Clint, still wrapped in towels, but drier now, takes them. The residual heat from the shower has flushed his skin, but his eyes are still dark-circled. 

"I have antibiotics for you," Phil said, trying not to think about Clint's arms, or chest, or what the towel is covering. He should _not_ be ogling his archer when he's on the verge of pneumonia. "When did you eat?"

"Right before the shower."

"Can you drink a smoothie?"

"Peach?" His eyes betray a hint of interest. 

"I can do that. Get dressed and I'll have it ready."

Phil blends up peaches, vanilla yogurt, honey, and some orange juice. He splits it between two glasses, toasts an English muffin, and carries them into the living room. Clint comes out wrapped in Phil's robe. He sinks down on the couch, pulls an afghan over his lap and takes the smoothie and toasted muffin from Phil. "Thanks." 

He sounds miserable. Phil can't help it. He reaches over and touches Clint's cheek. It's too warm, and he flinches away from the contact. Phil backs off. "Sorry. Just checking your temperature. I'll get your meds."

"Phil ... It's not that." He looks at Phil, his cheeks flushed with more than fever. He collapses against the cushions. "Pills?"

Silently cursing, Phil gets the antibiotics and a Tylenol. "You need to take this with food." 

Clint swallows down the pills and obediently drinks his smoothie. When he's done, he lies down, pulling the afghans over his shoulders and huddling into the soft knit. "You can watch TV. It won't bother me."

"I'm getting out of this suit, first." He hangs up his suit carefully, plans what he's wearing tomorrow, and pulls on jeans and a sweater. He goes into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and takes out two chicken breasts. He seasons them, and puts them in to roast. He decides pasta will be easier on Clint's throat than potatoes. When he comes out of the kitchen, Clint is asleep. Phil puts Clint's chicken and pasta in the refrigerator and eats his solitary dinner at the table with his StarkPad for company. 

Phil keeps the TV on low. He switches to _American Pickers_ , amused by the interplay between Mike, Frank and Danielle and the characters they come across, as much as he is interested in the collectibles. So far, nobody has the collection of Captain America memorabilia that he does. It makes Phil feel both geeky and proud. Barton would be rolling on the floor if he were awake.

He can't see much of Clint bundled into the blankets, but his breathing is quiet now; it seems the only time he doesn't cough is when he's soundly asleep. Phil takes out his tablet and starts working on his schedule for the rest of the week. He sends an email to the department administrative assistant to have her cancel and reschedule several low priority appointments -- does he really need to be present at the latest supply committee grievance meeting? -- and move the other appointments to the early afternoon whenever possible. That way, he can be here when Clint wakes up and have at least a ghost of a chance to be home in time to fix dinner or pick something up that will be vaguely nutritious. He sends a final email to Fury, explaining his rearranged schedule, and settles in for an hour of "picking."

The last thing he does before he retires for the night is to check Barton's fever. Two fingers laid on his cheek, as much a caress as a check. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
There is a text message from Fury the first thing in the morning, requesting and _requiring_ his presence at headquarters at his earliest convenience. He can hear Fury's voice dripping sarcasm in every word. This was exactly what he was hoping to avoid. Clint opens an eye when he comes into the living room. There is a brightness in them that wasn't there the night before. 

"Lo, he lives," Phil smiles. "Can you handle coffee, or would tea be better?"

"Coffee. Lots of milk. No sugar." Clint gets up slowly. "I slept for twelve hours?"

"You were sick and exhausted. Breakfast?"

"Sounds good." He staggers off in the direction of the bathroom. 

Phil scrambles eggs and makes toast. He doesn't think Clint is up to more than that yet. When Clint sits at the table, Phil puts the coffee in front of him along with a glass of water and the antibiotic. "Eat before you take that," he says. He's trying not to stare at Clint; sleep-mussed and shirtless under Phil's old robe. It falls away from his chest, revealing an expanse of smooth skin and hard muscles. Phil wants to taste the skin over his collarbone in the worst way. 

"What?" Clint asks. He looks down at his chest. "Did I get egg on the robe? I'll wash it --"

Phil takes a deep breath. "No. It's fine. Fury texted. I have go to in."

"Mission?"

"I don't know."

"I'll get my stuff together."

"Don't be an idiot, Barton. You haven't been on the antibiotics for twenty-four hours. You're still sick."

"I've been sick before. I can take care of myself. Not that I'm ungrateful or anything, but you didn't have to take me in like a damn orphan. I've been there, done that."

He sounds defensive, embarrassed. Phil sighs. "I'd like you to stay here. If it is a mission, I'll let you know. If it isn't, I'll be home as soon as I can. I've got a refrigerator full of food, a microwave -- and I know you like the TV."

"I'll run up your cable bill," Clint threatens, but his shoulders relax slightly. 

"I'll take it out of your pay," Phil replies, relieved. His phone vibrates and he reads the text. "Fury again. I'd better get to headquarters."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Clint waggles his eyebrows. 

"Barton, I haven't come across _anything_ you wouldn't do." Clint's eyes dance at him, and he suddenly realizes his double entendre. "Within reason," he amends weakly. It doesn't help. He feels the tips of his ears burning. The only solution is a retreat. He picks up his briefcase and flees his own apartment like it's on fire. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

It's not a mission, just a situation that needs close monitoring. Phil, Maria Hill, and Fury watch as a S.H.I.E.L.D. field team takes down a Hydra financed drug and counterfeiting operation in Chinatown. There are five civilian casualties; mostly minor scrapes and bruises from falls as they scrambled to get away from the gunfire. Jasper Sitwell handles the op well. He and Woo corral the Hydra workers into NYPD vans. They'll be charged with drug manufacturing and distribution, then S.H.I.E.L.D. will have their chance to interrogate them once they've been processed. Once the decontamination teams move in, the excitement is over. 

Fury looks pleased. "Your Agent Sitwell handled this well."

"He's ready to lead his own team."

"Hill?"

"Agreed." She clears her throat and pretends she's not blushing. She and Jasper have a _thing_ , which Coulson finds endearing as it makes two of the most competent, emotionally impenetrable people he knows delightfully human. 

Phil gathers up his papers. "Director Fury, I'll write this up at home and send it to you."

Fury lifts one brow, an expression that is somewhat terrifying. "Maria, leave us?"

"I'm on my way. I need to debrief Jas -- Agent Sitwell --" She chokes, realizing how it sounds, and gives Phil a _look_ that would wither a less secure person. Fury, apparently, hasn't noticed his ultra-confident SiC's gaffe. Instead, he focuses on Phil.

"Still babysitting our resident problem child?"

"Sir, Barton isn't a child, and yes, though I wouldn't call it babysitting."

"Really?"

"Protective custody."

Fury gives a low chuckle. "How is he?"

"Better than he was, but still sick."

"He could be sick in his own quarters."

"It would take twice as long for him to get well. He wouldn't eat, might not take his medications as directed, and would probably collapse on the firing range because that's the only place other than the air vents he seems to be comfortable. He's a valuable asset. I'm protecting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s investment." Phil doesn't like being defensive, but he'll do it for Barton's sake.

Fury keeps digging. "Really? He's damaged, Coulson. Damaged before we found him, damaged when _you_ brought him in. The jury is still out on exactly how valuable he is."

Phil nearly throws up his hands in despair. "So, we should abandon him? Sir, you know his background, his history. Somehow, leaving him to fend for himself when there's no reason for it seems ... unnecessarily cruel." He stares down Fury, which is no small feat. 

After a moment, Fury's hard face softens. "Someday, Coulson, throwing yourself in front of a train will be your undoing."

"Yes, sir. I imagine it will." Phil smiles slightly. "But I'd still like to write up the report at home."

"Go." Fury hands him a sheaf of notes and waves him off. 

Phil puts the notes on top of his own considerable stack. It's going to be a long night.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The lights are dim and the flicker of the TV is nearly soundless. Phil sets down the container of egg drop soup and box of assorted dim sum on the kitchen counter. Clint is sleeping again, but this time, as soon as he hears Phil's footsteps on the hardwood, he opens his eyes and stretches like a sleepy cat. The hem of his shirt rises up, revealing a glimpse of skin that sends a curl of heat into the pit of Phil's stomach. "Hey," he says. "You're home." He seems to scan Phil for signs of dust or injury, then relaxes. 

They are words Phil wishes he could hear every night for the rest of his life. He shakes that weakness off. "It was an operational observation. Sitwell led a team against a Hydra meth lab and counterfeiting site."

"Looks like it went well." When Phil blinks at him, he adds. "When it doesn't, you get these lines ... here." He comes to his feet in an easy motion and draws two fingers down the middle of Phil's forehead. Phil wants to burrow into his touch. For an instant, just the barest flicker of time, there is a look of longing in Clint's eyes before he casually steps back.

"It went well," he says, slightly breathless. "I brought dinner. Egg drop soup and a dim sum platter, if you're up to it."

"I can eat."

"Good. Did you --"

"Chicken and noodles, a banana, milk, and antibiotic." He gives Phil a wry smile. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"Today, yes. Last night, not quite." 

Clint sighs. "Thanks, you didn't have to take me in." He runs a hand over his hair. "Do I have time for a shower?"

Phil shrugs. "It's take-out. It will keep." 

Clint's eyes crinkle in a smile. It's devastating. Phil turns away, feeling like a smitten teenager, and half-angry that Clint would make it sound like he was a burden, something to be 'taken in', like a stray dog. It wasn't right. 

"Hey, Coulson. Did I say something wrong?"

Phil, who has been accused of having the most dead-pan expression since Buster Keaton, must have let that anger show. With an effort, he schools his emotions, takes a breath. "No, I was just distracted." There, that was the truth. He couldn't tell Clint that _he_ was the distraction.

Clint tilts his head, a quizzical look on his face. "O-kay. I'll just go ... " he vanishes silently down the hall. Phil sinks down on a kitchen chair and buries his head in his hands. This is going to kill him. Fury was right. Clint was the speeding train and Phil was lying down on the rails.

When he hears the water shuts off, and Phil divides the food on two plates and heats them in the microwave. He can't sit across the table from Barton. He takes the plates into the living room and sets them down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He puts on CNN. A few minutes later Clint joins him, and Phil realizes that he would have been better off with the width of the table between them. 

Clint's body is warm from the hot water and he smells like Phil's soap and shampoo. When he reaches for a steamed dumpling, his shoulder and knee press into Phil's. He laughs at something on TV, and Phil is so intrigued by his laughter that he isn't even sure what they are watching. And when he's done eating, he stretches like a lazy cat, all lean muscle and graceful motion. There is a sliver of taut abdomen revealed as the shirt rides up. 

Phil closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He makes a move to stand, but a warm hand on his arm stops him. 

"Let me," Clint says.

Phil's heart starts galloping off. "What?" He must have a totally stupid look on his face because Clint is grinning at him. 

"Clear the dishes. I'm better, really. You look exhausted." 

"I'm fine."

"No, I don't think so. I've heard that line before, remember?" His shoulder jostles Phil's. He gathers up the dishes, and Phil closes his eyes, listening to the soft clink of plates and glasses. He's lulled into a doze by Clint humming an unknown song. It's comforting. 

He feels the cushions on the couch give as Clint settles down again. The TV is muted, and the murmur of CNN fades as he sinks into a deeper sleep. When he wakes up, it's nearly midnight and Clint is sprawled across his chest, heavy and warm and completely relaxed. His breath whispers across Phil's neck and one hand is clutching the front of Phil's shirt. Clint is completely unguarded; unlike the man Phil has come to know. 

He needs to move, but at the same time, he doesn't want to disturb Clint. Who is he fooling? He doesn't want to move because the steady thump of Clint's heartbeat against his chest, the heavy warmth of his head on Phil's shoulder, the weight of his body, is something he didn't know he wanted. He now knows it's what he's wanted all his life. 

Well, he's been lucky in his life. He's been given a lot -- a family, a fine education, a career that gives him the adrenaline he craves and the mental stimulation he needs. A salary that is, at times, ridiculous, and at times not enough ... It's perhaps too much to expect that he could have Clint, too.

He savors the feeling of Clint's hair brushing against his throat for a few minutes more, then he carefully moves, letting Clint's lax body slip slowly back to the cushions. He covers him with the afghan, both amused and touched by the way Clint snuffles into the pillows and wraps his fingers into the soft knit. Phil turns the TV off and dims the lights before he crawls into his own bed. He misses Clint's warmth, but at least he has that memory. Tomorrow, that's all it will be, and he'll put on his suit and be S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Phil Coulson, unflappable and untouchable. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

He's gone the next morning before Clint wakes up. He's left waffles for breakfast and figures Clint has been in his place often enough to manage the rest. He's deep in a report when a familiar hand comes over his screen and drops a bottle of antibiotics on his keyboard. 

"I thought you might like to see me take them since you didn't leave me instructions." Clint sounds angry and Phil looks up. 

"You shouldn't be here," he says. "You're still running a fever."

"No, I'm not. Medical checked me out. I've been on antibiotics for two days. so you can stop babysitting. I've moved back into my quarters."

"Point taken." Phil rubs his eyes, which are starting to ache. 

"But, thanks for everything. For taking care ... I mean ... I was pretty sick and," Clint ducks his head, and looks a Phil through his eyelashes, which is fatally attractive to Phil, but that he doesn't betray by even a flicker of his own. " ... and, well, nobody -- almost nobody -- has ever cared if I lived or died. So, it was ... nice."

"You're welcome." 

"Umm, listen. I know this Thai place that makes amazing Pho. I'd kind of like to take you there for dinner ... that is if you don't mind."

Phil blinks. "Barton, are you asking me out on a date?" Clint blushes so red that Phil is sure he's said the dumbest thing ever. "Sorry, it was a ... joke?" Phil, who never sounds hesitant, does. It surprises him, but he isn't a man to retreat without good reason. 

Clint leans in, whispers against Phil's ear. "Sir, you don't joke."

Phil isn't sure if what he's doing is insane, or if he's dreaming, because guys like Clint Barton don't ask the Phil Coulson's of this world out on dates; but the adrenaline kicks in and he abandons his customary caution. "I'm starving. No joke."

Clint smiles. "Well, then," He plucks Phil's jacket from the hanger by the door and pitches it to him. "We should go."

They walk to the restaurant, which Phil has passed a hundred times but has never entered. It's a storefront with steamy windows and a neon noodle bowl and chopsticks and the name _Mama Lo's_. Clint holds the door open and the fragrant aroma makes Phil's mouth water. Ginger, garlic, scallions, hot oil. It sends Phil back to time spent in Southeast Asia -- to Bangkok and Ho Chi Minh city. Not his favorite assignments, but his love of the cuisine had developed into a near obsession. 

Clint opens the door and holds it for Phil. It's dark and warm inside, and the tiny Oriental grandmother at the hostess stand gives Clint a big hug. "Clint Barton!" she says, peering up at him. "Where you been? You been sick? You not eat Mama Lo's pho." She tugs him towards a booth, and Clint winks at Phil over his shoulder.

"Mama Lo, this is Phil. My friend. You take care of him like you take care of me, okay?"

She looks at Phil with bright eyes beneath crinkled lids. "You Clint's friend? We take care of you. You look tired. You no eat Mama Lo's pho."

"No, I've never --" She clucks disapprovingly and hustles him over to Clint's booth. Barton is laughing silently, his eyes dancing. 

"Don't worry, Mama Lo. I'll make sure he comes back."

"He come back once he has my pho." She pats his shoulder. "You eat. You feel better." 

She grabs Phil's arm and hauls him over to the booth where Clint is nearly doubled over, trying not to laugh. Phil sits and she pats his shoulder. "You eat, you feel better," she repeats like a mantra and hurries off towards the kitchen.

"You're enjoying this too much, Barton."

"Sorry, sir. I never thought I'd see that day you'd be muscled around by an eighty-year old, four foot nothing grandma."

"That woman is a force of nature," Phil can't help smiling because Barton looks so young, so carefree for that moment. He's not going to spoil that memory. The food arrives without them giving order and when Phil lifts a brow at Clint, he shrugs, smiles and says, "I never order. Mama Lo knows what is good for you. Even if you did order something, she'd just bring what she thinks you ought to have, anyway."

Phil is beginning to understand the appeal for Clint. He lost his mother so young; never had anybody to cosset him, to fuss over him when he was ill, or take care of him when he was injured the way a mother would. With that realization, he has a sudden urge to go back to the kitchen and give Mama Lo a hug. 

Then he lifts the lid on his bowl and nearly passes out from the aroma of Thai basil, bird peppers and fragrant broth. It's perfect. The spring rolls are fresh and tender, there are little steamed dumpling with spicy pork filling, and savory chicken wings. It's all his favorite flavors; the heat, the spice and salt and sweet. 

When he recovers from sensory overload, Clint is grinning at him. His blue eyes are catching all the lights, the neon and the flame from the candle on the table. There is more color in his face than Phil's seen for days. His lips quirk up at the corner. "Miracle cure?"

"Better than penicillin." 

"If I'd only known." His hand is on the table, his fingers mere inches from Clint's. They look at each other. 

"This isn't a Mexican standoff, Coulson," Clint says. "I surrender." His fingers cover Phil's slide up the back of his wrist, curl around the bone briefly, then wrap around his hand. 

Phil turns his palm so he can return the clasp. "Are you sure?"

"Since the day I woke up in Medical with you sitting by my bed."

"I had just shot you," Phil reminds him.

"But you stayed. You talked to me like I mattered. You treated me fairly. And you gave me my bow." 

It seems like so little to receive so much in return. He can't say that to Clint. "Barton, you can't help being a complication." Still, his thumb is caressing Clint's knuckles. 

"Naw, this is easy." Clint leans over the tiny table. "But I'm not gonna kiss you here at Mama Lo's." 

"That might be wise," Phil agrees and wonders if Clint can feel the jump in his pulse. Clint just wraps his fingers more tightly around Phil's. 

"Do you have to go back to the office?"

"No."

"I still have some stuff at your place."

"Your meds?"

Clint pulls a bottle out of his pocket. "Just refilled." 

"Barton, are you sure? I mean really sure about this?"

"Sure as shooting."

"I can't ask for more than that." Phil doesn't pull his hand away from Clint's. They walk out, hand in hand. Phil looks back for a moment and Mama Lo is smiling, peering at them through the fogged glass of the restaurant. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil gets his kiss that night; the sweet sealing of Clint's lips against his, the slide of callused palms across his skin. He has the bliss of laying his body over Clint's, the press of their sexes between their bodies, and slick of come and the quiet rasp of Clint's release as he jerks beneath Phil's weight. 

Later, Phil wakes with the Clint's arm around his waist and his chin digging into his shoulder. His breath is ruffling his hair and his body is pressed against Phil's. His life is a mess, he thinks. A glorious mess of complications and Clint Barton. 

He doesn't care. 

**The End**


End file.
